


How Sherlock Holmes Became An Accomplice in Something Deeply Illegal

by Emily_Nicaoidh



Series: The Victorian Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, PTSD, Sherlock is complete trash for John, dark!john, minor description of violence, only sort of, unapologetic Johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5093711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emily_Nicaoidh/pseuds/Emily_Nicaoidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes thinks its a good idea to climb in Watson's bedroom window at night to avoid the criminal waiting at the front door. Unfortunately, Watson is dreaming about Afghanistan at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This instalment takes place seven and a half days prior to “You Ruin Me, Watson”. Concrit/feedback greatly appreciated! Unbeta'd, written while watching game 1 of the World Series.

Sherlock Holmes was weary. After a night (technically, a night and a third of a day) tailing a man who was blackmailing his client, he finally had proof of the villain’s activities. Pleased with his night’s work, he was eager to retire to his rooms at Baker Street and relax with a pipe to consider his next move. He suspected, however, that returning home would not be a simple case of walking in the front door. There was the matter of the suspect in a recently concluded investigation, who had been acquitted by the courts due to what Scotland Yard called a “clerical error” but what Holmes preferred to call their characteristic incompetence. Whatever the name, the result was that there was an angry, violent criminal recently (yesterday morning) set loose in London who knew the detective hailed from 221B Baker Street. 

Holmes scanned the back alley. If, as he suspected– _Ah, Watson_ , he thought fondly.  _Good man, Watson._  The former Army doctor had left his bedroom window open a crack, and Holmes began to inch his way up the drainpipe.

Watson reacted to the sound of the window to his bedroom at 221B Baker Street scraping open from the outside in one smooth movement of pure instinct. He reached under his bed and levelled his revolver at the window, and by the time Sherlock Holmes finished extricating himself from the windowsill, he was staring straight down the barrel of his flatmate’s revolver.

Unfortunately for Holmes, his flatmate was still asleep. 

Watson’s eyes were open, but there was no awareness behind them. He stared straight into Holmes’ eyes, but there was no flicker of recognition. Holmes swallowed slowly. 

“Watson,” he said softly, overwhelmingly aware that his flatmate was only six months removed from Afghanistan, and much less than that in his dreams. For all Holmes knew, Watson was aiming his weapon at some nebulous enemy from his past. 

“Watson,” Holmes said again, when his first salutation failed to cause a reaction. “Watson, it’s me.”

Watson shifted his grip on the revolver so that he held it with both hands, still aiming steadily at Holmes’ heart. Holmes swallowed.

“Put your hands where I can see them,” Watson commanded, the unmistakably authoritative tones of Captain Watson blurred by sleep. 

“All right, Watson, all right,” Holmes said, trying to keep his voice quiet. He slowly raised his hands into the air, turning his palms towards Watson. The man was clearly in the grips of one of his war dreams, and Holmes had no idea if his show of defencelessness would register, but it was worth trying. He studied Watson’s face for any indication that he was regaining consciousness, but there was nothing. The skin of his face was smooth, unmarked by the lines of concentration that would normally accompany this level of focus. 

“Kneel,” Watson commanded, “and keep your hands up.” Holmes briefly evaluated the danger in not complying, but Watson’s voice was still sleep-heavy and he knew that his friend did not see him, and unless he could make Watson see Holmes, he would continue to treat him as a threat. Holmes sank to his knees, making the movement as slow and steady as he could to avoid startling his friend. He stared up at Watson, dread beginning to pool in his stomach as he wondered how far this dream of Watson’s was going to go. He dearly regretted not asking Watson about his dreams in more detail, but Holmes had to admit to himself that he had never expected to live one of Watson’s dreams with him. The most involved he had ever been was lulling Watson back into peaceful sleep with his violin, and that even only in the relative safety of the sitting room.

“Watson,” Holmes tried again, his voice low but beginning to shake a little bit. “I’m not sure what you’re seeing, but you need to try and wake up.” 

Watson took a step closer, close enough that Holmes caught a whiff of whiskey on his breath. 

“You shot one of my men,” Watson said, taking another step closer to Holmes. “He died under my knife yesterday.” Watson lowered his revolver, keeping it precisely trained on Holmes’ heart.

“John!” The word tore out of Holmes like a prayer as Watson’s revolved cracked across his head, and Holmes crumpled to the floor.

“Oh God, Holmes–” Watson gasped, Holmes’ exclamation jarring him out of his dream. He dropped to Holmes’ side. “Oh Holmes, I’m so–” The words ended in a sob. 

Watson lowered his head, holding his ear above Holmes’ nose and four painful, long seconds passed as he waited to hear a breath. When Holmes finally drew in a stuttering, short breath, Watson turned and pressed his lips to Holmes’. 

“Sherlock,” he murmured against his lips, “I am so, so sorry.” Holmes stared back, wide-eyed, too stunned to react.

Abruptly, Watson stumbled to his feet, then turned as if to bolt from the room, but a weak grasp at his sleeve stopped him. 

“Watson,” Holmes said weakly. “I apologize, I should not have-” Holmes put a hand to his head, touching what would surely be a bruise in the morning. 

“It is I who must apologize, Holmes,” Watson interrupted him. “Both for assaulting you in my dream, and for–” he flushed, and mumbled the rest “assaulting you while awake.”

“My dear Watson, you can’t think-” Holmes began, but again Watson interrupted him. 

“If you wish to bring this to the Yard, I–I can’t blame you,” Watson said. “My behaviour was inexcusable, I know you–”

“No listen, Watson,” Holmes raised his voice. “I’ll quit the cocaine, I’ll do anything, just please–!” Holmes couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but surely Watson knew what he meant? At any rate, the other man finally seemed to calm down, and Holmes rose to his feet, only slightly shakily. 

 _Violin, now_ , he thought, and made for the sitting room. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But John Watson was a man who knew his limits, and so he stayed in his chair, head in his hands.

After two hours of heartrending violin sonatas, Watson gave up on sleep and descended the stairs to the living room. The normally soft thud of his weight on the stairs seemed to echo behind him, drawing him back to his room, away from Holmes.  _No, no, no_ , each footfall seemed to say.  _No, no no, he does not want this._

Watson paused at the foot of the staircase and looked ahead into the living room. Holmes, barefoot in his dressing gown, was exactly as Watson had expected to find him: stationed at the window, back to the rest of the room, violin at his shoulder, bow sawing across the strings violently. 

"Trouble getting back to sleep?" Holmes' tone was casual, almost too intensely so. _Testing the waters, then_ , Watson thought.

"I...no. I've just been listening," Watson admitted, and the admission carried him into the room. He doubted it was possible to sneak up on Sherlock Holmes, but he had wanted to be sure the detective was aware of his presence before he got any closer. Wanted to give the other man time and space to leave, if that was what he needed.

Holmes did not reply, but he loosened the hair on this bow and set it carefully in the violin case. Watson's eyes fixed on the large, purpling welt on Holmes' temple that became visible as he turned. 

"Oh Holmes, I..." Watson felt his throat tightening, closing off any chance of saying he had no idea what. 

 "You have clearly done me only superficial damage, as you yourself can attest that I have been playing my violin with my usual level of ability for the past few hours," Holmes said, replying more to the look of deep sorrow on Watson's face than anything he had actually managed to say. "I expect it will heal quickly."

Watson sighed, a ragged, broken breath, and sat heavily in his usual armchair, resting his head in his hands. He wanted very badly to go to Holmes, to check over the bruise, put a compress or something on it--anything to try and repair what he had done, because this was the easier part. The part that was not already completely beyond repair. The other....Watson feared that he had just irretrievably ruined the most important relationship that he had ever had. He wished he trusted himself to go to Holmes and check over the bruise and do nothing more. But John Watson was a man who knew his limits, and so he stayed in his chair, head in his hands.

\--

Watson wasn't sure precisely how much time had passed ( _or,_ he reflected,  _even generally_ ), but he suddenly became aware of a cold, gentle hand beneath his elbow tugging him to his feet. He blinked up at Holmes, his eyes feeling grainy, who was very near, and _oh, that bruise._ Watson fought down a wave of nausea and staggered to his feet. 

"What are you..." Watson shook his head, trying to collect his thoughts. 

"Surely you don't intend to sleep in this chair, Watson?" Holmes asked. "It will do nothing to improve your nightmares."

"I don't... can't go back up there right now," Watson managed, his voice hoarse. "Where I thought...Where I..." He gestured at Holmes' bruise. 

A series of quick expressions fluttered across Holmes' face as he ran some unknown mental calculation, then he nodded briefly. 

"All right," Holmes said quietly. "All right."

He kept a hand on Watson's elbow and began to guide him down the hall, towards Holmes' own bedroom. 

"Holmes, what are you--" Watson asked incoherently, as Holmes nudged him over to his own (rather large and comfortable looking) bed. 

"You can't sleep up there, and I won't have you pass the remainder of the night in that horrid chair in the sitting room," Holmes replied, pulling the blankets open. "Therefore, you must sleep here."

Watson gaped at him for several seconds before he felt himself able to speak. "After I've just--attacked you, you invite me into your own bed?"

Holmes caught his gaze, the fog-grey eyes clear and resolute. 

"I trust you Watson," he said slowly. "And I think you need to not be alone to be able to sleep peacefully tonight. If I can give that to you, I will."

Holmes moved to the other side of the bed, burrowed into the blankets, switched off the lamp, and waited. Watson stayed as he was for some moments before sliding under the blankets and resting his head on a pillow. 

"Goodnight, Watson."

\--

Sherlock Holmes awoke in the late morning to find that both of them had moved around rather a lot during the night. His head had somehow migrated from his pillow to Watson's shoulder, and the army doctor's left arm was slung across Holmes' waist. He discovered that he did not find the amount of physical contact with another person altogether disagreeable, as he had previously expected that he would. _Interesting_. Holmes filed that detail away for later. 

Holmes must have stirred a little, because Watson's grip tightened around him and he mumbled something that the detective did not quite catch. 

"What's that?"

"Don't go, Sher-," Watson mumbled sleepily, then blinked, fully awake. "Oh, dear."

"Oh, dear indeed," Holmes couldn't hide his smirk. 

"I"m--this is inexcusable, I do apologize," Watson began. Holmes felt that it was long past time to correct the misunderstanding that the man persisted in harbouring. 

"Watson, no," he began, resting a hand on the man's cheek. "It's fine, it's all fine." 

For a long moment, blue eyes looked into grey, asking, searching. Eventually satisfied, Watson nodded and pulled Holmes closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ended up giving one of John's lines from series 1 to Sherlock for this one. It just sort of fit.  
> Let me know what you think! Concrit especially welcome, as I'm always looking to improve on my writing. Not beta'd, all mistakes and idiocy are mine alone.


End file.
